The Nerd, the Pig
and Papersalesman
Miss Piggy, Dwight Schrute and Steve Urkel, now joined
together in a TV-character-alliance that Dwight insists on referring to as “die Jaeger,” begin looking for a place
to camp for the night. It’s early
morning on the first day of the Games and they’ve just fled the chaotic scene
at the Cornucopia, somewhat held up by Dwight’s improvised ninja-star
attacks. Dwight now leads the way
through the woods, his beady eyes scanning the forest ahead, perspiration
collecting on his forehead. After
several hours of silent searching, he stops.
They’ve come upon a broad circular area of grassy, flat, ground. The sun has already fallen below the tree line
and it’s hard to see anything but the small field directly in front of them. As he stops, Dwight holds a hand up behind
him, indicating the others should do likewise.
“This is the place,” Dwight says authoritatively, “this is where we’ll
make camp.” Immediately, Dwight begins
to assign jobs. Steve will collect
firewood, Piggy will collect water from the brook they just passed and Dwight
will walk the perimeter of the camp ground, securing it from threats. They make quick work of it and are soon warming
themselves near the small fire they’ve built.
They huddle together and decide that someone should keep watch at all
times…the fire may invite threats.
Dwight volunteers for the first watch. Steve and Piggy express their
gratitude, as both are exhausted. Steve
lies down a few yards from the fire, anticipating sleep to come slowly. The constant adrenaline rush he’s been on
since the Games began this morning surely won’t allow him to sleep easily….
Light, this is the first thing that Steve is conscious
of. It’s morning. He had slept all night. He should be panicking, he should be
concerned. Why didn’t anyone wake
me? Has someone attacked them? At the moment, however, these thoughts are
only faint scents in the back of Steve’s mind.
Exhaustion and hunger have rendered them peripheral. The only immediacy he feels comes from the
pleasantness of lying prone, dazing only semi-conscious into the new sunlight,
his eyes scarcely open. Then a new
sensation hits him, something stronger than the comfort of a grass bed…food. The delicious smell of fatty, protein-rich
meat hits his olfactory senses like a freight train. Steve pulls himself up, sitting, now, on the
grass. He notices that everything
appears foggy; his glasses have fallen off in the night. Looking around, he can just make out a blurry
Dwight, sitting next to the fire. “Oh,
you’re up,” Dwight says happily. “Yeah,”
Steve replies nasally, “did you find food?
What is that I smell?” “It’s
delicious is what it is,” Dwight says simply.
“Well, is there any more?” Steve’s asks, his mouth watering. “No,” Dwight says casually, “I ate it
all.” This blasé response catches Steve
somewhat off-guard. How could he let me sleep all night and not think to wake me or share
food with me? I wonder if he shared any with Piggy? This last thought catches Steve, where was
Piggy? She won’t stand for this, Dwight
can’t act so selfishly without repercussions; it’s two against one. “Dwight,” Steve says, now scrambling for his
glasses, “where’s Piggy?” No response
comes from Dwight, only what sounds like the smacking of lips. Steve feels his spectacles under his right
hand and quickly shoves them onto his face, anxious to find Piggy and chastise
Dwight for his disregard for the team.
With everything now in focus Steve looks over to the fire, to Dwight as
he sits cross-legged just next to the flame.
The first thing that hits Steve is that there is, in fact, something
cooking over the fire; Dwight had constructed something of a spit. There’s not much left but charred bone,
apparently it had been cooking a while.
Immediately after this confirmation, Steve turns to inspect Dwight. He hasn’t spoken in a minute or two but is
staring directly back at Steve, a happy, well-fed expression on his greasy
face. Whatever Dwight had cooked was
very fatty; he has grease dripping from his thin, curved lips all the way down
to his mustard-yellow, short-sleeved button-up shirt. “Where’s Piggy?” Steve asks again. “I think you know,” Dwight responds slowly,
his eyes staring unwaveringly back at Steve.
“What are you talking ab….” but Steve can’t finish, the awful
realization hits him, he’s smelling bacon.
The grease smothering Dwight’s moony face is the residue of the
barbecued Miss Piggy he had feasted on during the night. Steve can’t immediately process this thought,
the horror too big to sink in. He sits
there for at least a minute, unblinking and slack-jawed like Waldo Geraldo
Faldo. “How could you?” Steve finally manages to spit out, his voice
tremulous. “Well, making a spit was the
difficult part, Piggy was a big girl and it was tough finding branches sturdy
enough to support her girth, but I managed,” Dwight says, startlingly
casual. “No! How could you kill her? How could you break the alliance? She trusted you, how could you… eat her?!” Steve responds, the words
coming more quickly and forcefully now.
“Survival of the fittest,” Dwights’ voice drops a half-octave, and his
eyes squint beneath his middle-parted hair, “I am the fittest, and now I am
full of protein and energy. Not only did
I eliminate Piggy as a threat but I have made myself that much more able to
physically overpower you, not that I’d have trouble anyway.” Dwight smirks with this last comment. Steve can’t respond, he simply stares,
horrified at the maniacally Machiavellian paper salesman. Suddenly, Dwight launches himself at Steve,
his arms flailing. Out of instinct Steve
crawls backwards, avoiding all but a few of Dwight’s wild blows. As he stands to run from his frantic backwards
crab-walk, Steve quickly sees something he never noticed in the dark last
night; there is a very steep decline behind their campsite. The 45 degree slope in front of Steve
continues further than he can see through the dense foliage. He quickly decides that he must move forward,
he must put distance between himself and the insane, bespectacled man behind
him. Steve tries to run down the hill,
hoping he can keep his balance and that Dwight may not pursue him, but he
quickly loses his footing and begins to roll.
After what feels like ten minutes, Steve comes to a stop, he’s battered
and bruised from rolling over rocks, branches and stumps, but he can’t
stop. He pulls himself upright and
continues running.
Steve crashes through the brush ahead, braking branches and
shrubbery like they’re a coffee table in the Winslow’s living room. Mostly out of habit he coughs out a quick and
perfunctory, “did I do that”…but his heart isn’t in it, his thoughts are racing
and he’s immediately stumbling further through the vegetation. He notices blood pouring from his under his
right arm. The red stream quickly
reaches his jeans…it didn’t have far to go.
He’s weak and getting weaker.
Five hundred yards later he collapses, spent. You can
do it, Steve, he thinks to himself, it
doesn’t matter that the alliance is broken, you can make it, you can pull
yourself up by your own red suspenders and…and…and…but he knows he
can’t. His own intellect squashes the
hope he was counting on to keep him alive, to sustain him. Defeated he rolls onto his back and waits for
death to come. But out of the corner of
his eye he catches a glimmer. The sun is
reflecting directly at him off a shiny metal object. What is
that? Steve wonders groggily. It’s
large, very large. Summoning all his
strength, Steve rolls over, adjusts his glasses…and immediately begins
laughing. Laughing, snorting, crying and
snorting again, Steve crawls over to the large object like a rat to cheese,
hugging his metal savior when he gets there.
He’s hugging his transformation chamber.
It must have been a gift from the
sponsors, Steve thinks. Slowly but
resolutely, he crawls inside, closes the door and presses the large green
button.
It’s midday and sunny as the metal door on Steve’s
transformation chamber creaks slowly open.
Then out from the chamber, slowly and very coolly, steps none other than
Stefan Urquelle. Deliberately adjusting his tie and pulling
just a hint of white sleeve-cuff out from under an impeccably tailored suit, he
clears his throat. “Let’s find some
ladies…” Stefan croons in a voice that is honey, smoke, and Al Green all rolled
into one.
Across the arena, isolated by a stream, for a reason
unbeknownst to her, Katniss feels a flush rise in her cheeks.
ELIMINATED FROM THE COMPETITION: MISS PIGGY
2) Dalton - 10/1
3) Katniss
- 20/1
4) Super
Mario - 30/1
5) Dwight
Schrute - 35/1
6) Nic
Cage - 40/1
8) Kate
Austen– 60/1
9) Kevin
McCallister – 75/1
12) Helen of Troy - 90/1
16) Lennie –
120/1
17) Steve Urkel
– 200/1
18) Charlie
Kelly – 250/1
19) Marcia
Brady – 300/1
24) Boo Radley
- ?
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